Weakness
by Kyrianne
Summary: My interpretation of what happened in chapter 99. Oneshot, heavily implied MelloxMatt, Mellocentric. Rated T because it's sorta disturbing.


Weakness

_By Kyrianne_

A lone van thundered down the empty highway the night of January the 26th. Despite it being in the midst of winter, the roads were perfectly clear of the familiar grey remnants of half-melted snow. The few storefronts that were still open shed their artificial light through dusty windows, letting it pool across the ground and side of the van. The normally bright red logo exuberantly declaring the van to be one of transport seemed washed out in the cold glare of light, then disappeared entirely as the van moved on, past all signs of civilization until it was just the open road.

Inside, a leather-clad hand reached to turn up the volume on the small television set that was bolted to the dashboard. The 9 o'clock news had started. Though the owner of the hand with the leather glove would have never admitted it, a knot of worry and guilt had been squirming in his stomach like a nest of snakes for the past hour. Now, his eyes kept flicking from the road to the screen, hoping for certain things to be said that would finally relieve him of his anxieties.

Mello felt his breath hitch as a familiar red sports car filled the screen. It sat in the middle of the street surrounded by the also-familiar police cars. The window of the driver's side had been rolled down, and the door stood ajar, open as far as it would go as if the person inside had been forced to come out. Bullet holes riddled the open door and part of the car's side. The back tire had been punctured by one, and now it was out of air, a dejected, deflated piece of rubber that was now useless. Stern voices described the event involved, but Mello's ears weren't functioning; he didn't want to know what had happened, as much as he already knew.

The hand not being used to steer clenched at the rosary that hung from his neck, worn more out of habit than religion. Tonight, though, Mello found himself muttering a Hail Mary, wishing he hadn't neglected church for so long, if only to gain that God's help in this crazy situation.

He managed to get out one and a half of the prayers before the ringing in his ears was replaced by the soft tones of a different newscaster, this time a woman.

"We don't yet know the identity of the man shot dead..." she began, but once again Mello's sense of hearing failed him.

_Matt..._ he thought angrily, angry at his best friend and lover for getting himself killed, angry at himself for letting it happen. Angry at the world for its injustice. Angry at God for His lack of compassion. _I didn't think they'd kill you..._

A single, unbidden tear slid down the unscarred side of Mello's face, and he wiped it away with one acrimonious swipe of his hand. _I'm sorry..._ He didn't know whether that was for the tear or for Matt's death. He decided it was both; Matt wouldn't have wanted him to cry, not proud Mello, who hadn't even cried for the death of their mentor, L. His way of mourning was through anger.

He could feel that familiar surge of revenge curling through him, calling his wrath into some sort of action. He pushed it away and forced himself to concentrate on driving. His mind whirled with scattered thoughts: possible plans of action; the disjointed memories of a younger Matt, of their first meeting, of their first real kiss; and suddenly, a story, the first he had enjoyed from his first class of ancient literature, a story called _The Iliad_...

And suddenly, he understood the lesson that his teacher had been trying to get him to understand, a lesson he had shunted off to the side in favor of exalting Achilles' brute strength and prowess in battle.

Achilles' mortal ankle wasn't his only weakness. So was Patroclus, the man who was his best friend, possibly _more_ than his best friend. Achilles had come close to insanity with his need to avenge Patroclus' death, the same need to avenge that Mello felt now.

His Matt, dead. His Mattroclus. Mello laughed bitterly at the coincidence, knowing without a doubt that he would, too, come to the same, pathetic point of insanity as Achilles.

His Matt, dead.

His heart clenched painfully as the reality of the situation finally hit him. He would never see that infuriating redhead again, never have to deal with the video games that stole attention from him or the smoke of cigarettes that were slowly but surely killing them both. He would never need to give any more lectures on lung health. He would never feel the warm embrace of that lanky body or those cool, soft lips against his own, or that intensity of lovemaking at midnight...

The pain in his chest spiked, and he abandoned the wheel to clutch at himself, the scream of agony in his throat coming up short and choking him. Through the pain he knew. He knew he was dying, a heart attack from the woman he had locked in the back of the van.

He didn't mind; the pain would be over soon, and then he'd been with Matt. His Matt.

He sent a wordless thank you toward the heavens. It seemed God did have a shred of compassion.

The final breath of his life expelled from his body in a silent whoosh as death embraced him, and then gravity finally reclaimed his body. It thumped against the wheel of the van, sending it careening off the road and through the wall of a crumbling stone church. The glazed eyes of the blonde stared unseeing toward the floor, but the shadow of a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, hinting at the peace he felt in his final moments.

Somewhere, in another world, a world filled with darkness and despair, the cold lips of one ghost of a man whispered a greeting to another: "Welcome to death, Mells."

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A/N: My interpretation of what happened. I hope it sounded profound rather than cheesy. It's kind of hard to find the balance with this sort of story. I also hope the ending's alright; I rewrote it about 3 times before I gave up on it sounding any better.

Reviews are welcomed with open arms. And possibly cake.


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